


[private] Three Ways The Story Did Not End For Dom Claude Frollo

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre-Dame - Victor Hugo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Story by maleeni</p>
            </blockquote>





	[private] Three Ways The Story Did Not End For Dom Claude Frollo

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to make this 5 Ways The Story Did Not End, but I ran out of time. I also wasn't sure how shippy you wanted Frollo/Esmeralda to be. I hope this is ok.
> 
> Written for doinkies

 

 

Three Ways The Story Did Not End For Dom Claude Frollo

It occurs to him, as he grips the handle of his sword, that she is not the first gypsy that he knew. They way she holds on tight to the pitiable misshapen fool's hand, stretching, pleading with fate to keep him alive, it's all to clear now that this is what they are in this drama playing out in front: a father and a mother, fighting over their foolish, misbegotten child. 

He should have noticed earlier, but she distracted, fooled him with her bewitching charms, that this is the true battlefield. She has poisoned his garish foster son, turned his own creation away from its master. Poor Quasimodo. Such a simple mind. He doesn't understand, no, not like him, not like Dom Claude Frollo, minister of justice, judge over life and death, doesn't understand what she really is. 

That their eyes met that day on the market, that he saw her and she saw him and he knew and she knew. She knew her power over men, but still she danced, twirling the sharp rapier of her body, inviting all their eyes to be dazzled and bewitched. She knew the repercussions of her curse, how her every move is capable to ensnare all men. A distraction! 

She plays the hapless princess and yet it was her who took the first shot. Her to draw first blood. Marble, coating a thin layer of sand stone cracks and crunches beneath his feet. _Does she not deserve death?_ he asks the heavens and with a booming voice the clouds resound, _Yes._

One fast step to reach her. Another blink of an eye to grab her throat. Only a mewling sound and the desperate scratch of fingers against stone tell the story of his poisoned son. An easy sacrifice in a much bigger drama. Her eyes are green like snakes, burning at him as she tries to kick at his arms. He will not be distracted anymore. He eradicated the first demon when she tried to invade in his city, he will also rid the world of the vermin that sprung forth from her. 

"Are you happy now?" he bellows. 

Her eyes widen in confusion and it's the last thing he sees before he sends flying over the edge. Deep gasps wreak his chest. He always knew he would be tempted. That's what all the scriptures said. He didn't know it would be easy to win. 

Collecting himself he smooths over his robe and settles his hair before stepping forward to watch her journey down into the flames. To be consumed, just like he predicted. 

His name is Judge Dom Claude Frollo and her fate was sealed the moment he laid eyes on her. 

* 

"I'm glad that you resisted me the first time," he notes. 

She just glares at him across the table, yanking at her bonds. 

"Anything else would have been ... disappointing," he continues and raises his napkin to his lips. Had she said yes it would have made her just another woman, no different than the chamber maids who rut with the servants behind the stables. It would have been a quick and empty satisfaction.

"Would you?" He signals and his guard rushes up to her, quickly separating the ropes that tie her arms to the wooden dinner table chair. 

Still glaring she massages the place where the fibers have burnt her tender wrists. A mantle of silence settles between them and he finds himself enjoying it as he watches her face in the flicker of the candles' light. _Such a cozy atmosphere,_ he thinks. The dinner table keeps them almost 10 feet apart. Like an old couple, long indifferent to each other's company. Only she is not gonna be his wife, she'll be his concubine. 

"I thought you said I wouldn't do well inside walls," she spits out all of a sudden. He startles her when he rises from his chair and is beside her in a flash, pulling her up by her wrist. 

"I'm willing to try," he purrs. A whiff of her scent invades his nostrils and excites in. She should repulse him. La Esmeralda, even with her curvaceous body, the fabric of her blouse stretching oh so delightfully over her chest, with her raven hair framing her exotic brown features, she should disgust him. 

She is a gypsy. Her people worship demons, the sun and the moon. His beguiling dancer might have the face of an angel, yet she and her wretched family of misfits are heathens, surely hell-bound. They hide their sinister roots behind sparkling gold and beauty. Gold and beauty he has now captured in his palm. 

A feral beauty and allure that draws him in. With a sigh Dom Claude pulls her closer, his fingers moving out of their own volition, caressing the skin of her wrist. 

Her eyes narrow and she jerks away from his grasp. "I'm just here...,"

"I know, you little friends. Would be a shame if something had to happened to your goat. He's so... talented." 

"I will escape." 

"Maybe," he says and raises her eyes two meet him with two fingers on her chin. "Maybe."

Her body sets his blood on fire. He reaches for her, they wrestle till he backs her up against the stone wall and buries his nose in her long hair. "I want to live in your eyes," he rasps and notes the way her body jerks in disgust. Her skirts whirl as he pushes her away. She hisses angrily and their eyes meet in cold standoff. 

He waves for the guards to take her for two more nights on bread and water in the dungeons. She snarls, kicking, but she is not gonna run. Dom Claude breathes in deeply. He knows she might never break, she might evade him forever, like salvation escaped Sisyphus just by the tiniest sliver of a moment. But he knows that even though he might never win, it is all worth it just to have her close enough for them to play this game till there are no more games left to play. 

*

 _The green serpent of love doesn't sleep._  
The green serpent of love can kill me.  
My love was like molten gold. And the yellow moon on top of the gypsy tent  
And over your shoulder  
And the hooves of the horses who thud over the snowy plane.  
Though my love is no longer a love  
For you palm and your hair.  
For your lips and your heart.  
Gypsy Poem from "Gypsies, A People out of Fire and Wind" by R. Djuric

She dances just to mock him. Every step of her is a dance, her bare feet flying over the sharp pebbles like they aren't even there. _Devil's work,_ he thinks on instinct. 

The vineyards of the Champagne are lush and green, far away from the stink and smoke of the city. Birds sing. Foxes scurry away as they approach. He walks beside her in heavy gray cloak like a morose parent watching over an over-energetic child. She darts back and forth, two steps ahead, three behind, up the hill and back, like a wretched mountain goat all the while chattering without end. 

In front of them the lowly wooden cabin comes into view. His features tighten and his heart beats faster despite himself. He forces himself into a slow and dignified step. She has cost him everything, his dignity, his pride, his very sanity. She made him release every one of her friends, defied him to make every single concession, every clemency. 

He's gambled it all away for nothing. Not one dance. Not one touch. Not one promise. 

She took away his strength bit by bit, concession by concession and gave him nothing in return. She gave him nothing but the privilege to give and maybe barely the whisper of a promise of promise, dancing in front of him like a misty haze, gone and intangible whenever he tries to grasp it. 

A disapproving snarl escapes him and Esmeralda returns to his side, matching his step for two heartbeats and then she is gone again. His fingers reach for her colorful blooming skirt and find only air. 

Panic rises in him and he masks it quickly when her song stops and he realizes he can't see her anymore. _Bitch. Liar. She played him, he knew she played him. He should have known._

On top of the next incline her can see her, in front of the house, balancing a wooden broom on two fingers, throwing it up in the air. She catches it and sweeps it, making it her partner in yet another dance.

When he approaches she halts. Whirling the broom around again. Grasping it like a sword and she drags over the ground. She draws a line in the sand, a line between them, as always. 

He winces when she lets it drop and instead produces a flurry of brightly colored scarves from her sleeve. _Wretched gypsy tricks._ Her jade green eyes find him and she leans her back against the door frame. She looks like a goddess, leaning there, standing on one foot, thumping the heel of the other against the dark oak post. Her hands are crossed in front of her chest. Pensively she nods and bites her lower lip. 

"You really hate it when I do that, don't you," she notes. 

He grimaces and wipes his brow. She blows a lock of hair out of her eyes and shrugs before she turns to retreat into the darkness of the cabin. 

His eyes survey the valley once more and takes a deep breath before he follows her. They are alone, truly alone. No soul for miles and miles, no curious eyes. That's why they are here, so nobody should be able to see and carry the tale back up to Paris of Dom Claude Frollo and how he was willing to give it all away for just one kiss.

 


End file.
